Suicidal Sherlock
by marianne.j.o
Summary: Sherlock has been going through a tough time lately so John tries to help but doesn't understand. THERE WILL BE JOHNLOCK! WARNING: could be triggering with suicide attempts, self harm and drug issues
1. Chapter 1

John leaned back silently in his chair,  
'Why had Sherlock said that? Sherlock is never that nice.' he carefully lifted his cup of tea towards his lips and took in his surroundings; the pale pastel walls had some paint chipped off; the coffee table was slightly off-balance, leaning slightly to the right and the detail was rubbing off in some places...  
Suddenly he realized that Sherlock was going to do something stupid, he stood up as quickly as his body would let him and sped across the room toward the phone, he dialed Sherlock's number, 'How could I be so slow!?'  
"Sherlock answer!" Tears stung his eyes and he felt like screaming then suddenly Sherlock's voice crackled through the mobile,  
"John?"  
"Have you done anything yet?!" John felt breathless and prayed Sherlock was okay, Sherlock's muffled voice replied,  
"I may have cut a little" Sherlock mumbled, then John heard Sherlock knock something over,  
"Sherlock, are you okay? Where are you?" John felt like he was going to pass out or collapse or something any second now  
"I'm back at the apartment" John was about half an hour away at his sister's  
"Don't do anything, I'll be there as soon as I can" he hung up, instantly regretting it, 'what if he tries to kill himself?' John's whole body shook and he almost blacked out as nausea swept through him, he stumbled across to the door his mind-set on one thing: getting to Sherlock.

The taxi journey seemed to take forever, he paid the driver and dashed toward the apartment door, 'shit.' he had forgotten his key, he banged his fist on the door as hard as he could, Mrs Hudson had gone out for a meal with a few friends so he needed Sherlock to answer,  
"Sherlock!? Are you okay? Can you answer the door for me? Sherlock, this is important, answer the door!" John started to panic, 'Why isn't he answering the door!? Has he tried to kill himself?' Once again nausea hit him, he tried to calm himself down, he stopped and breathed for a second then charged forward, ramming his shoulder into the door, trying his best to force it open. It took three attempts. Then suddenly it gave way,  
"Sherlock!?" he yelled not bothering to shut the door behind him, just letting it drift to. He Ran up the stairs almost tripping on the last step. He looked across the room as he stumbled through the door,  
"Sherlock!?" He yelled again, looking around frantically, suddenly he realized how dizzy he felt and how he wanted to stop and breathe for a second but he was too worried for Sherlock, he noticed the bathroom door was slightly ajar and he froze when he saw his friend through the doorway.

A FEW DAYS EARLIER  
Sherlock was browsing through some files, he was bored again and if he didn't occupy his mind with something soon he was going to get depressed again, 'Bored. Boring. Too obvious. Old. Too much like last weeks case' he couldn't find a new case, so he picked up his phone to text John:  
I need a new case - SH  
It occupied him for a few seconds, he would do pretty much anything, in this state of mind, to distract himself for any amount of time. His mind was starting to over analyse everything, Mrs Hudson had dusted again, he could tell by how thin the dust was on the top of his Skull and because he hadn't spoken to it in a while. Sherlock lifted his skull off the side and looked it straight in the eye, well socket and sighed,  
"You understand why I need a case, my mind needs to be occupied with the, as of yet, unknown. People are so boring though. I know I shouldn't wish misfortune on others but I need a case," He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, "And soon."  
He looked across at the wall as he put down his skull and leaped forwards, 'lets check on my markers' he thought, they were all boring and normal, one had gone on holiday for 4 days, 'why four?' he brushed aside that thought, 'irrelevant.' he picked up his phone and text John again:  
I'm running out of distractions - SH  
He sighed again and went back to his skull, he opened his mouth to talk just as his phone buzzed:

I'll be home in 20 minutes - JW

'actually 22minutes 30 seconds' Sherlock thought, 'if he is where he said he's be'  
John knew Sherlock, when not distracted, had self-destructive tendencies. He had seen some of the scars on his arms, scars Sherlock desperately tried to hide. John had never asked about them but he knew Sherlock knew that he had seen them and ever since John had quietly worried about him.

Sherlock looked down at his arms, they were just faint purple marks now, from when he got really low and his brother had stolen all his drugs. Suddenly all he could think about was the drugs. He desperately wanted to get high now. He thought about his secret stash 'incase of emergencies'. He looked down at his watch, '18 minutes' he got up and walked towards the door of his room and edged his fingers under the floor boards untill they slowly lifted and there he saw it, his secret stash.

John walked in and saw Sherlock sitting on his chair legs crossed, he looked calm and had a slight smirk on his face,  
"I thought you were running out of distractions?" he said a matter-of-factly.  
"I was." Sherlock replied shutting his eyes slowly and put his arms in stretched outwards position in such a way he appeared to be meditating.  
"So what distracted you?"  
Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly as he looked to the left and set his jaw tight, he turned slowly to look back at John,  
"I don't know." Then he looked down, almost guilty,  
"The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what distracted him?" John said sarcastically then he suddenly realized Sherlock had done something. "Oh." Sherlock looked at him cautiously and John didn't press the subject any further, "Shal we go to the chip shop around the corner?" he added, Sherlock nodded and that was the end of their conversation.

Sherlock woke up suddenly, his hair matted with sweat, he couldn't breathe, 'what was going on!?' he dragged himself out of bed the best he could and crawled into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. His hands were shaking and he needed to stay as quiet as possible, 'I can't wake John' he thought as he looked down at the floor, he just had to breathe but his whole body ached, he hadn't been this bad in a while and he felt scared and helpless. He could only make himself feel like this: Moriarty was nothing compared to himself. He was his greatest enemy. Nobody can save him from himself. He stood up, still shaking, and looked up at the corner, there it was. A blade. He was trying to breathe as best he could but his breaths came out in short gasps. He was starting to feel faint and had pins and needles in his fingers and toes. His sight was starting to blur but he finally reached the blade, he flopped on he floor and slashed it deep into his skin, gradually a thin red line of blood appeared. He cut again. And again. He couldn't stop, it was like something had possessed him. Blood started to run down his arm and he thought he was going to pass out. His arm was on fire and each cut was deeper than the last. In the end there were 23 all up his arm, if any had hit a vain he would've bled to death. He was doing his best to be quiet but couldn't find the bandages and when he finally did find one he knocked a toothbrush in the sink. He froze and held his breath, 'had John heard?' he listened carefully but no footsteps were to be heard so he exhaled. He put the bandage on carefully, he didn't bother disinfecting his cuts, he knew they'd be fine and he put his blade in the pocket of his silk dressing gown. He got up and walked across the hall, his arm hanging limply at his side. He didn't notice John behind him as he collapsed in his bed.  
John heard something fall, 'a toothbrush? In the sink?' His body felt heavy and he counted to ten before heaving himself out of bed, he slowly walked across the landing and saw Sherlock walk into his room. 'Oh, just Sherlock' he was about to go back to bed but then he noticed something on the bathroom floor. A spot of blood sat there on the tiles and stared at him. He felt nauseous, 'Had Sherlock cut again?' he wondered. He looked up at the bandages and felt his stomach drop. He had. John didn't know what to do, he stood there and stared at the spot where an unused bandage should be. 'How does harming yourself help?' it made no sense to him, how making yourself bleed helped but if it meant Sherlock lived he wouldn't complain. He decided tomorrow he would confront Sherlock about all of this, why he was doing it and how he could help. He wanted to help Sherlock, his best friend, his only real friend. He needed Sherlock and wanted to make sure nothing happened to him. John slowly turned round and walked towards Sherlock's bedroom door, he knocked once but there was no answer, just an eerie silence. He looked arround the door and Sherlock passed out on the bed with a blood stained bandage on his arm, he felt dizzy but walked towards Sherlock anyway. He moved his frail body into a more comfortable place and put the covers over him. He paused and looked at him a second, 'how could he do this to himself?'

John looked across the table at Sherlock,  
"How did you sleep?" he asked Sherlock looking at him for a fraction longer than necessary,  
"Fine." He replied, a glazed look appeared on his face as he turned the page of the newspaper. John was panicking slightly, 'What if he hates me for asking? Should I say anything? This really needs sorting out though, maybe I should just get it over and done with.'  
"Why do you cut Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up, stunned and then for a second looked like he was in pain but the moment of quickly passed,  
"You wouldn't understand," Came his response, "I need something; I ran out of drugs and I have no case, my thoughts are overwhelming and don't stop, my ideation is interesting but it gets to the point where I don't know what to do or how to cope and I don't like not knowing."  
"How does cutting help?" John still didn't understand,  
"When I'm low my brain reaches a point where it notices everything but instead of in an orderly pattern and only acknowledging the necessary, it notices it all at once and it drives me insane. I'm a show off, I know because voices tell me I am, they annoy me day and night." He breathed in deeply, "They won't stop John" Sherlock looked emotionless as a tear ran down his cheek and he leaned back in his chair, "I cut because it distracts me, for a moment my brain is numbed, it's the same with the drugs, and having your brain numbed for a second causes a sense of relief. Not just normal relief, the intense satisfaction it supplies is immense and helps so much. It's an addiction John."


	2. Chapter 2

_LATER THAT DAY_

Sherlock was in a better mood. He ignored the fact that his arm was on fire and looked through his e-mails; he wanted a new case. He solved 6 of them in 10minutes: 'boring' he thought as he shut the laptop lid. Just then John walked in and Sherlock looked up at him,

"Are you feeling any better?" John asked with caution, he didn't want to do anything that might trigger him,

"Much better infect, I just solved 6 cases, they were all incredibly simple, John and I swear we need some milk." John stared at him, he was glad he was feeling better but he was talking like he hadn't ever done anything last night, 'maybe he wants to forget?' John thought, 'maybe he just wants to be distracted.'

"Let's go out for dinner." John said and Sherlock nodded in approval,

"Let me go get my jacket"

They were sitting in the restaurant, Sherlock observed the table. He was randomly in a bad, empty mood. The emptiness filled him and he couldn't make out much, he was just empty, everything seemed pointless, there was no point in analysing the table, it's just a table, 'I don't need to know what's been happening or what's likely to happen.' He let out a deep sigh and John looked up at him with a curious look; he never knew what Sherlock was thinking. Sherlock was wondering how many ways he could kill himself, he knew he shouldn't think like that because it could only result in him doing something stupid but he couldn't stop thinking about it, it was like he had to think about it, like he was supposed to kill himself. He was overthinking again and realized he was glaring at the floor. Slowly, he looked up and wondered how easy it was for him to just get up and leave, he looked at John:

"I'm not hungry; I'm going for a walk. I'll meet you back at the apartment."

John looked at him worried but let him go anyway. Sherlock got up and walked slowly away, he didn't understand his emotions and couldn't be dealing with people right now. It was almost as if he had none, as if they had just gone and he didn't know what to make of it. He had lost the will to live. He adjusted his sleeve slightly as it brushed against his cuts, sending a shooting pain through his arm, he doubled over. Some passers-by asked him if he was okay but he just nodded, looking as white as a ghost, his sight was blurring and tears stung his eyes but he continued walking along the cold, dimly lit, streets of London. He stumbled sideways and lent against a wall but quickly kept going, he wasn't quite sure where he was going but he knew he had to get there. His breathing became sharp and shallow and a sharp pain started to fill his chest. He was having a panic attack but he didn't understand how to cope with it, he knew what you were supposed to do: sit down, relax and control your breathing but his thoughts were frantic, he could hear his breath rattle down his throat as he fell into an alleyway, huddled up in the corner next to a skip. The stench was overwhelming, it stung his nostrils and made him gag: 'what the hell do people throw away to make it smell so bad!?'Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over his shoulder and there stood John but it wasn't John. Sherlock was seeing things.

"You need to listen to me Sherlock, you're insane but I'm going to sort you out, if you just let me. Now, breathe," Sherlock heard all this but it was all in his head, he didn't know how he knew that this wasn't real but he knew. His hallucination of John leaned in close and whispered in his ear,

"I'm here for you Sherlock." He then leant in a nibbled Sherlock's ear and slowly he guided his lips to Sherlock's and kissed him, a gentle loving kiss. Sherlock knew all this wasn't real but yet he savoured the moment. He wished it was real and that John was really holding him together and reassuring him with a kiss. Sherlock felt himself go limp as he slowly slipped into a deep sleep.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and his head felt heavy. The sun was just starting to rise and Sherlock realized he hadn't spoken to John since last night when he had walked out of that restaurant and felt nauseous as he realized how worried John must be. He slowly took his phone out of his pocket and realized he has 5 missed calls and 3 text messages from John. He read the messages first:

_When will you be back? It's getting late - JW_

_You better be okay – JW_

_I'll send Lestraud out to find you if you don't hurry up – JW_

Sherlock tried to stand but his body felt so heavy, like he had a weight on his chest. He slowly realized he was in an alleyway next to a skip. He decided he should hurry up and tell John he's okay.

_I'll be back in 20 minutes 16seconds if the traffic's good – SH_

He put his phone in his pocket and started to make his way to John.


End file.
